IT TAKES A VALIUM

Last week I talked about the book “Bringing up Bebe,” in which an American mom talks about how French moms view parenting. Now I’d like to go to the other side of the globe and review “Battle Hymn of a Tiger Mother.” For those of you unfamiliar with the book, it’s the story of a very successful mom of two daughters who is raising them “the Chinese way.” In short, this means she demands perfection in every aspect of their lives, and when she doesn’t get it she acts like a spoiled brat.

I give the author, Amy Chua, some credit for putting all her ugliness out there for the world to see. It can’t be easy being one of the most hated moms in America and she certainly put up with her share of flack. Then again, that flack has also helped her sell some books. It’s probably a lot easier to deal with being called a horrible mom/person while you’re watching your book climb up the New York Times bestseller list. I’d be willing to put up with some name-calling if my blog would take off. But I digress…

Everyone hates this mom except her older daughter and her husband. Her younger daughter, on the other hand, likens her to Lord Voldemort. I’ve read all the Harry Potter books and I think that even Voldemort has a tad more humanity than Amy Chua. To illustrate: When her kids presented her with handmade cards on her birthday, she angrily told them to take them back as the gifts were unworthy. She berated her younger daughter in public. She mocked her, ruined the card and then threw it back at her, demanding something better. She repeated the process on the older daughter, lamenting that she hadn’t written her a poem. The girls, by the way, were seven and four. I couldn’t get past this. Forget the fact that she made the kids practice the piano and violin at the expense of sleep, meals and friends. Forget that forced them to practice while on vacation before they could go out and see any sights. Forget that she didn’t allow them to have playdates and sleepovers. It all hinged on those fucking cards; I couldn’t forgive her. She, on the other hand, seemed very proud of this fact as she dedicated a whole chapter to this scene, aptly named “The Birthday Card.”

That’s the best you can do for my birthday! Avada Kedavra!!!

I also felt that the theme of the book was misleading. According to the cover, the book “was supposed to be a story about how Chinese parents are better at raising their kids than western parents. But instead, it’s a story about a bitter clash of cultures, a fleeting taste of glory, and how I was humbled by a thirteen year old.” The book did not deliver. As a matter of fact, the author used her 229 pages to brag about her family’s accomplishments: how smart, clever and talented they all are; how well-travelled and culturally superior they are to most Americans; how much praise she receives from everyone around her for her parenting skills. There was merely a glimpse of her daughter “humbling” her: they were away on vacation in Russia and as the author was verbally assaulting her younger daughter for not eating caviar, the girl finally rebelled and stormed away. From that point on she refused to play the violin, on her mother’s terms. Big deal. Instead, she decided to pursue her own passion: tennis. Did she suck? Of course not! She exhibited exceptional talent, most likely because she was committed and practiced diligently, like any good Chinese daughter would do. Amy, remind me again how this Chinese parenting thing failed you? When exactly did the book change from being one that was “supposed to show” superiority in Chinese parenting but went another direction? Please. I wish she’d been more up front about the tenor of the book. We’d still buy it; we’d still hate her but for different reasons (i.e. her nasty demeanor, as opposed to being a pretentious twit).

I will admit that she makes one think twice about the benefits of raising kids the Chinese way. How many serial killers, psychopaths and losers are Chinese? Not many. Remeber Long Duc Dong?  He might have been a nerd and a pervert but he was going places.  Many people of Chinese descent are accomplished.  They are scientists, doctors, musicians, engineers – often very successful because their parents have pushed them to excel, and they in return love and respect their parents, taking care of them as they grow old. Can we Americans say the same?

What’s a happenin’ hot stuff?

While acknowledging that all parents want what’s best for their kids, the author differentiates Chinese parents from western ones by how they define “best.” Western parents want their kids to be happy, have self-esteem and pursue their true passions. Chinese parents, on the other hand, want to prepare their kids for the future by arming them with skills and confidence.

This got me thinking. As a kid I dabbled in a few things:  art lessons, ballet, softball, all of which i gave up when it got ”too hard.”  I even tried playing the flute but lasted as long as you can say “Pied Piper.” I blew a few times, made no music and pretty much gave up. Good thing I didn’t try for a career in the porno industry.   In school I studied occassionally but was happy to skate by on decent grades rather than really apply myself and shoot for the moon.  This continued into adulthood as my work ethic always sort of sucked too.  I liked working, but I also liked bullshiting with my co-workers, taking long lunches and occasionally calling in sick, even when well.

I was raised, as most of my American counterparts, to believe that life should be fun and if practicing or studying didn’t make me happy, i gave it up.  Admittedly I pushed that philosophy to the max, but I didn’t turn out so bad.  I did get myself through law school, traveled around the globe, and ran a marathon despite my hatred of the sport.  But could I have been more?  I wonder what my life would have been like had I been raised the chinese way.   Would I now be a famous prosecutor, responsible for putting Casey Anthony behind bars? I know she was found not-guilty but I bet if Chinese Kim had been the prosecutor the outcome would have been different.  Ditto for OJ. Would I be a concert flutist? Or a major porn star? Perhaps I would have my artwork on displaly at the Guggenheim. Who knows.

You wouldn’t be laughing if Chinese Kim had been on the case!

My sons are too young to be pushed; they are only 5 and 2 and I don’t yet have them in any organized activities. This is partly because we’ve been unsettled now for almost a year but also in part because I want them to be kids and play for as long as possible, with no responsibilities; nowhere to be on a Saturday morning except home in their PJs making pancakes and watching cartoons. I imagine once my kids start trying out the various and sundry activities available to them, I will give them a pass once they get bored.  I can’t picture myself pushing my son to practice guitar for six or more hours a day. Not only does it sound like a colossal waste of time, it seems dreadfully boring and painful, for both of us. Imagine listening to a budding musician practice for six hours a day? Not without ear plugs!

After reading Amy Chua’s book, however, I realized that I want my sons to experience success.  I want them to find their bliss and develop   expertise at something they love.   I don’t want them to give up easily like I did with the flute.  I don’t want them to be entitled little assholes, thinking the world owes them everything because they’re special (which they’re not, by the way). They should know that to be great they need to work for it. I might not agree with the author’s methods but her kids are wildly talented and successful. There is something to be said for commitment and pushing ourselves beyond our comfort zones.

At the end of the day I can safely say that Amy Chua will not be my new guru. She did, however, make me reconsider my role as parent and hopefully I will be able to devise more of a happy medium: part Chinese; part American. You know, sort of like those chicken fingers they serve in Chinese restaurants.

we all know they’re not authentic but we love ‘em anyway!

Stay tuned next week as I review my final potential guru: Jane Nelson. She advocates firm but kind. I’m still working on crazy but medicated.

© 2012 KIM KINZIE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. REPUBLICATION OR REDISTRIBUTION OF CONTENT, TEXT OR IMAGE, IN PART OR IN WHOLE IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED WITHOUT PRIOR WRITTEN CONSENT FROM THE AUTHOR.

In my last entry I promised you a review of my recent parenting reads.  Here they are in no particular order:

• “Bringing up Bebe” by Pamela Druckerman
• “BattleHymn of the Tiger Mother” by Amy Chua
• “Positive Discipline” by Jane Nelson

Let’s start with “Bringing up Bebe.”  If you aren’t familiar with this book, the author is an American living in France who has discovered why French moms (or more specifically, Parisian moms) have a laid back, easy-breezy attitude toward parenting.   I wasn’t sure about taking parenting advice from a woman who gave her husband a threesome for his fortieth birthday but what the heck (by the way, read her article on that subject; it’s rather hilarious).

The book is a good read and I recommend it if you’re interested in seeing how the Parisians raise their young.  While I certainly didn’t take everything to heart, I did enjoy reading how those skinny French bitches put themselves first, always.   They take care of themselves:  physically, emotionally and sexually (as in, they still have sex and seem to enjoy it).  Some of their parenting philosophies definitely resonated with me.   First, they use free play to stimulate their young ones, as opposed to flashcards, listening to Mozart or taking as many classes as a toddler’s schedule will allow.  This made me smile as I am loathe to partake in any class that makes me sing “The Wheels on the Bus.”  Also, I like the notion of letting our kids explore their world with a little more freedom and independence.  How much harm can a kid do in a big grassy field?

Second, they draw a clear distinction between child activities and adult activities, and rarely do they coincide.  I love my kids but, as controversial as this might sound, I have little interest in playing with them.  I do not enjoy following their every move at the playground as I’d much prefer to read a book or chat with a friend than to squeeze my adult-size ass down a kiddie slide.  I am not craftsy nor am I chock full of kid-friendly activities to do on a rainy day.  I admit I do like to color and draw; I have been known to make a fabulous pyramid and sphinx out of legos, and I really enjoy setting up the Thomas train tracks.  Seriously.  I sort of have a problem.

a proud mama moment...pathetic

At the end of the day, however, I refuse to be the pink Power Ranger or play Mommy cheetah/baby cheetah or any game that I find treacherously boring.  I’ve tried.  I’ve said “ok, but just for five minutes,” at which time I set the timer and barely last thirty seconds before I’m staring longingly at said timer.  Go off already!  I just can’t do it so I stopped completely.  Now when my five-year old asks me to play I say “sorry, that’s why I gave you a brother.”  When my husband comes home from work, he won’t say no because he’s been away from the kids all day and wants to give them some attention.  I see him sitting there on the couch, holding the red Power Ranger, pretending to shoot some invisible bad guy.  I laugh and think “better you than me sucker!”

If we were French parents, society would expect us to say “no” to child’s play.  Even my husband would probably be given a free pass, so the kids would be left to play on their own while he and I enjoyed a glass of Beaujolais together. The problem I have, however, is that the French moms never seem to do anything with their kids.  From the author’s perspective, it seems they are too focused on being skinny, sexy and put together.  Their kids don’t come first, but they don’t even appear to come second or third.  One mom made her kids quit their tennis lessons because driving them back and forth was too “constraining” for her.  I don’t recall once reading in the book that a French mom snuggled with her baby or had fun with her kids.  Maybe “having fun” is just too American?

There were a few other things that made me wince:  All of the kids go to daycare, whether the moms work full-time, part-time, or not at all.  There are no playgroups or mommy and me classes because every middle-class kid is in daycare.  The author attributes this to the fact that every French mom wants to return to work and the French daycare, subsidized by the socialist government, is fabulous.  I think it’s wonderful that moms in France have options but it sort of bums me out that an entire culture has given up on taking care of their own kids.  No mom wants to be home.   As a stay-at-home mom I understand completely – the work is grueling and the pay sucks – but what does did this say about how French society views motherhood?  French moms rarely breastfeed after a month or two and I doubt you’d see one wearing a baby in a sling as it would surely ruin her outfit.  They don’t seem to practice anything we call attachment parenting, which, whether you agree with it or not, is certainly not something to be condemned by an entire country.   While Americans might certainly be too child-centric, are the French too me-centric?

A final point of contention:  French kids go to summer camp for eight days, starting at age four.  You read that correctly:  age four.  Never in a million years would I send my four year old off to camp by himself.  It’s not because I’m afraid he’d get molested or harmed in someway; I just think four is too young to be away, with strangers, for such a long period of time.   Even the author had a hard time with this one.

I’ve always fancied myself as worldly and felt certain I could hang with my European counterparts, no problem.  After all, I enjoy eating dinner late, am a socialist at heart, and wear black almost daily.  As such, I expected to read this book and become a convert.  In the end, however, the laissez-faire style of French parenting was a bit too much, even for me.  The French moms definitely seem more laid back and relaxed about parenting, but it’s probably because someone else is raising their kids while they have sex, get their hair done and go shopping.  Also, I got a bit tired of reading how the author could always spot the American moms as they were typically wearing sweatpants, interacting with their children, and, horror upon horrors, greeting her in a warm, friendly way.  Is that so wrong?

I guess at the end of the day I’d rather be known as a friendly, involved mom as opposed to a cold bitch with a great wardrobe and a killer body.  And as for the sweatpants, leave us the fuck alone already.  Yeah, we’re American moms and we wear sweatpants…and sneakers.  Get over it.

my mom wears sweatpants...so what?

Next entry: Battle Hymn of the Bitch on Wheels

© 2012 KIM KINZIE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. REPUBLICATION OR REDISTRIBUTION OF CONTENT, TEXT OR IMAGE, IN PART OR IN WHOLE IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED WITHOUT PRIOR WRITTEN CONSENT FROM THE AUTHOR.

After Monday’s entry about my monstrous day, I received a few emails and texts from friends:  Was everything ok?  Was I losing it, again? (Thank you, by the way, for your concern.) I want to assure my handful of readers that I am fine…I’m almost always fine.  Perhaps my prior entry needs some explanation:

Remember that Time magazine cover a few weeks back;  the one with the hot mom breast-feeding her three year old, casting a “go ahead, mock me…I dare you” sort of stare?  Well I’m a lot like her.  Ok, so I’m a little heavier, a lot older, shorter, brunette, and while breastfeeding my 2 ½ year old my boob looks more like an empty pastry bag than a delicious short stack, but other than those differences we are the same.  We are moms who breastfeed our toddlers at an age that makes most other people shudder.

let's see what those boobs look like when you're 44...bitch.

This is not something I readily admit.  I am not necessarily ashamed or proud of the fact that I still nurse my two and a half year old a couple of times a day.  It’s just something we do.   I weaned my older son before he turned two but with the baby I know he’s may last child and we’ve been so unsettled this year, moving cross country, living in several temporary homes, buying our first house, etc. that I just wanted him to have that one thing (ok, two things) that he can count on.  I’ve stopped telling friends because the reaction I get is rarely positive.  I’ve been commanded to stop and told it’s time for an intervention.  I get asked “are you still nursing?” with a tone that implies “please say no!”  Even my husband would like this takeover of my breasts to be done already.  I’m not sure how I feel about it but I know I’m terribly frightened of what my breasts will look like when all the milk has dried up.  Yikes!

Truth be told, I still love breastfeeding my little man.  I’m a big proponent of breastfeeding and many other things that fit under the umbrella known as “attachment parenting.”  I know this might sound surprising as I seem more of a “get my kids the FUCK away” from me kind of mama, and truthfully that’s how I feel most days, but when it comes to certain fundamentals, my inner hippie has emerged.  Both boys were born naturally (i.e. without drugs, not just through the vagina tunnel):  Cole at a birth center; Gage at home.  Yes, it was planned.  My boys are anteaters (i.e. uncircumcised); I used cloth diapers, wore them in slings, made my own organic baby food, and never let them cry it out.  Sounds like the chapters of the Dr. Sears’ Baby Book, right?

Do i look like a hippie to you?

Despite my commitment to this type of parenting, I did not become a martyr for the cause.   I did not adopt this practice because I thought it was the right way to parent.  I just felt it was right for me.  Interestingly enough, however, when you do certain things with your baby (i.e. breastfeed him in public, wear him in a sling, etc.), you get labeled.  You are an earthy/crunchy, hippie-dippy mama.   Although I am definitely left of center, I am certainly no hippie.  I eat meat, shop at Target, and love my non-organic, non-local wine.  Nonetheless, the label was firmly attached.  Moms who knew me often assumed I was a vegetarian, pointing out the veggie burger option at the playgroup barbeque.  They went so far as to apologize to me personally for driving big SUVs (“we really need that third seat!”…as if I give a shit).  I believe I saw several of them checking out my underarms for excessive hair.  Let me assure you that if they found hair there, it was not because I was making a statement against shaving; it was merely the fact that I hadn’t showered in days and my hair grows like a weed.  It’s tough being of Italian heritage in Southern California!

I did not judge, nor begrudge, other moms who parented differently.  I will, however, admit that I felt pangs of jealousy when they talked about how their babies were sleeping peacefully after a few nights of sleep-training, or how they still worked out at the gym and had dates with their husbands.   I, on the other hand, walked around in a sleep-deprived coma for the first year of life. As for sitters and the gym, it just didn’t feel worth the effort.  I remember joining the Y, where they had free childcare and a great yoga class.  I left my son in the hands of a cute but ridiculously young-looking babysitter who had been charged with watching over an army of snot-ridden toddlers.  I felt slightly guilty as I snuck away, but I had to try, right?  Inevitably about 20 minutes into class I would see that teenager walking toward the door in her Y polo shirt.  I knew she was coming for me.  My baby had been crying since I left; they couldn’t calm him down.  Could I come and get him?  Ugh… Everyone told me to stick with it but it was really hard to relax and be all zen, knowing that my baby was screaming for me.  Ok, he wasn’t really a baby…I believe he was almost two but that didn’t make it any easier for me.  I know many moms who dropped their babies off the first day they were allowed:  age six weeks.  I just couldn’t do it.  Do I wish I had done it differently?  I’m not sure.  The sacrifice felt worth it since babyhood is such a short period of time and I have my whole life to sleep, do yoga, and have dates.

The problem is that I went and had another baby thus prolonging this period of deprivation for longer than ever imagined.   So here I am, five and a half years later, and life is starting to feel like Mommy prison.  Things have gotten better, I admit.  I do use babysitters fairly often and have actually had several full nights of sleep.  But at the end of the day, I am having a hard time putting my needs ahead of theirs, and, as you can probably tell if you’ve been reading this blog, they often drive me bat-shit.  I yell; I scream; I rant; I’ve even spanked a couple of times.  Hell, I’ve done and said things I never would have thought possible.  Who’s kidding who?  I’m no “attachment parent” anymore.  I’ve become a crazy person, looking like white trash as I swear at my kids, while dragging them kicking and screaming out of Target.  Dr. Sears would never write a book advocating my current parenting practices.  I feel fairly certain that Dr. Sears would instead write me a nice script of anti-anxiety meds and tell me to drop the charade.

So now I’m in search of a new guru.  Stay tuned as I’ll review the books I’ve read, and discuss their impact on my parenting, in my next entry.   Yes I still read…something I do while breastfeeding.  So there.

© 2012 KIM KINZIE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. REPUBLICATION OR REDISTRIBUTION OF CONTENT, TEXT OR IMAGE, IN PART OR IN WHOLE IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED WITHOUT PRIOR WRITTEN CONSENT FROM THE AUTHOR.

I had a wonderful Memorial Day weekend.  It contained a lovely balance of family-time, me-time and adult-time.   When I woke up on Tuesday morning I felt refreshed and renewed.  My vessel was full and, surprise, surprise, I enjoyed being a mom.  I spent the next couple of days ogling over my children, marveling at how quickly they’re growing and feeling pride in their intelligence and good looks.  I felt uninspired to write here because I just felt so damn satisfied.

I should have known it wouldn’t last.

What this week has shown me is that I am only a good mom when I’m at the top of my game.  God forbid, however, I am tired from lack of sleep, or suffering from a Zyrtec hangover, or have PMS, or am stressed beyond repair, or just feeling like plain old shit.  God help the rest of you if there’s any combination of the aforementioned ailments.  That’s what happened the other day.

My allergies have been hell so I took a Zyrtec the night before.  Have you ever tried this medicine?  It’s absolutely wonderful for ridding your body of allergy symptoms but for me the hangover was worse than drinking a fifth of tequila.  I even took the pill before bed, assuming any side effects would be long gone after a good night’s sleep.  The problem is that I didn’t have a good night’s sleep, and hadn’t had one in a few nights (thanks to the pesky allergies and being periodically kicked throughout the night by a restless two year old).  So I woke up in the morning feeling like I’d been hit by a truck.  On a positive note, I wasn’t sneezing.  Being so exhausted changed me as a parent.  I started off cranky, praying that coffee would help, but after three cups I was now cranky and jittery.  I had absolutely no tolerance for my children.  Their fights became insufferable; their demands for food and drink felt like bondage.  I kept telling them to go off to college already.  The worse I felt, the more their behavior deteriorated.  I couldn’t do it.  I didn’t want to do it, but what choice did I have?

If I had a real job, you know, one that paid and required you to get out of your pajamas, I could call in sick when I felt bad.  I might even treat myself to an occasional “mental health day.”  On grouchy days I could check out; ignore my co-workers and pretend to be entrenched in work.  I could skip lunch and go for a long walk or do something for myself.   When you’re a stay-at-home Mom, however, there are no sick days.  There are no coffee breaks, no checking out.  You have to be ON all day, every day.  It’s like I’m acting in a Broadway production of my very lame life, over and over and over again, and the reviews are not rave.

I don’t say this to complain.  As a matter of fact it’s highlighting for me the importance that I need to come first, as difficult as that sounds.  I started this journey a couple of months ago as I really want to enjoy my time with my kids when they’re young, and truth be told, I wasn’t enjoying it.  I’m realizing that for me, this is only possible when I have true balance in my life.  That means taking care of myself, getting sitters, reaching out to friends, taking real breaks, getting out of “kid-world” and spending time with grown-ups.  When I was down and out, I should have called my in-laws and dropped them off for a couple of hours so I could take a nap.  I should have begged a friend to help me out.  I should have done something to address the fact that I felt like a zombie but once again I sucked it up, thinking I was being some sort of martyr.  Who suffered?  My kids.  Instead of the fun, kind mom they’d gotten used to over the past few days, they were faced with monster mommy, whose face is scary and demeanor is positively frightening.

not my best day...

I hereby renew my pledge to put myself first, at least some of the time, as I begin to truly understand why this is so important.  I will continue to strive for balance in my life, everyday if possible.  I will not be afraid to ask for help, even though sometimes it’s the hardest thing in the world to do.  I will not be a martyr.  My kids might not like it at first, but when monster mommy has been permanently banished, I’m quite certain they’ll thank me.

© 2012 KIM KINZIE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. REPUBLICATION OR REDISTRIBUTION OF CONTENT, TEXT OR IMAGE, IN PART OR IN WHOLE IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED WITHOUT PRIOR WRITTEN CONSENT FROM THE AUTHOR.